


Where You Thought You Were Going

by likesflowers



Series: Not Five Star Hotels [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Multi, Not Five Star Hotels, On the Run, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Sam Wilson Feels, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 19:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15201713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likesflowers/pseuds/likesflowers
Summary: There were days when Sam hated Steve Rogers even more than he hated Captain America.





	Where You Thought You Were Going

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood.

There were days when Sam hated Steve Rogers even more than he hated Captain America. 

 

He  looked out at the scrubland wasteland of a valley stretched out in front of him, the sun hot on his neck and sharp from the altitude as he examined the front of the quinjet for damage. 

 

If he’d known he would end up here, running from everything he’d valued and fought for, nothing but a llama for company as he scanned the horizon for threats, would he have let Steve Rogers keep walking, a lifetime ago on the Washington Mall? Sam wasn’t sure, and that, more than anything, scared him. Initially, it had been the look he’d recognized in Rogers’s face, familiar from his work and his mirror. And then, it was that Captain America was an idea bigger than anything, and when he’d needed him, Sam had stepped up, and held his ground there at his side, as steadfast as anything. And pretty quickly, he stayed because of Steve, not the Captain. 

 

He didn’t have a hard time distinguishing between the two, and the shine had worn off the Captain well before he’d turned in his two weeks notice at the VA and put his house up for sale in favor of a hyper-modern suite at the compound. Captain America was an idea bigger than any one person could carry, and one that fit awkwardly in the world today, the edges of the idea clashing in surprising ways with the ugly truths that people knew now, the complex things that people craved. He had seen firsthand what following that sort of primary-color mythos led you to, buried the better side of it in the Arlington grave holding his best friend and flown over the worst of it burning in the Potomac. No, he’d stopped following Captain America before Steve had even liberated his old uniform. As time went by, his views shifted from apathy to active dislike of Captain America, given he could see how ill-fitting and heavy the mantle was across his friend’s shoulders, broad as they were.

 

And then there was Steve Rogers--stubborn as the glacier they dug him out of, tack-sharp, dry humor and piercing eyes and complete inability to back down from anything, absolutely fearless. Sam knew he couldn’t rightfully call it courage--courage requires a sense of fear, and Steve hadn’t had room for that in his mind for years. He was also an asshole on the surface, in the way that only truly good people are, and more of a flirt than you’d expect from someone whose skills must have been developed ninety years ago when sodomy was still illegal. Sam had caught a twinkle in those blue eyes more than once, so he knew it wasn’t accident or naivety. Both of them seemed to have an unspoken agreement that it wasn’t  moving past flirting, though--things were just too complicated, and Sam might be reckless with his life, but he knew exactly how badly he could get burned in the mess that was Steve Rogers and the infinitely tragic loves of his unnaturally long life. 

 

Yeah, Sam’s crush on Captain America had segued easily into honest affection for and loyalty to Steve Rogers the man, and he knew, even as he unzipped his suitcase at the compound, that it would cost him something in the long run. But he hadn’t imagined it would be like this, him checking their getaway vehicle for damage while a spy and a witch cleaned the weapons and Steven Grant Rogers was fuck-knows-where doing only-god-knows-what with the king of Wakanda and his formerly-brainwashed murderbot best friend. They were probably having the time of their lives, and Sam was here, alone in a field. Except for the llama, which spat on him.

 

\---------------

 

When Steve had said no to the Accords, Sam had backed him up 100%. He knew himself what it was like to cede your autonomy to the system, how it chewed you up until there was nothing left, then spat you out and ground what was left under its heel. He’d felt it himself, heard thousands of versions of it from vets struggling to make sense of living in a country they’d sacrificed pieces of themselves for, sometimes literally. He couldn’t understand how Stark and Rhodes thought it was a good idea, except perhaps that when you’ve been at the top the whole time, you don’t understand what it means to look at it from the bottom, how much it costs you.

 

Almost immediately, though, the shitstorm stopped being about accountability and autonomy and started being about what actually made Steve Rogers a superhero, and that was the people. It was the love of his life’s funeral. Sam hadn’t even told Steve he was going, just booked them both flights and a hotel room, because the hell was he doing this alone. And  _ that  _ had turned into Bucky Goddamn Barnes needing rescuing, his own mind back and still running away from Steve as fast as he possibly could; Sam had had an odd moment of prescience as he spoke into the comms about special forces approaching, that maybe Bucky knew something Sam didn’t, something that Sam should be paying attention to. That loving Steve Rogers--it didn’t matter if it was romantic or not--was going to cost you everything, absolutely everything; your soul was the least of it, and anyone with a lick of sense would get as far away as possible. 

 

Sam knew it, was the thing, but once the wheel started turning, there was no getting off, because that was who Sam was, even more than the reality of Steve being who he was. And so he held on and played his part, did what he had to, didn’t even flinch when it meant a prison cell, didn’t hesitate to trust Stark’s love for the Captain, didn’t walk away the moment the cell door opened and Steve rushed in and gave him a hug, tight and fierce but not lingering, which only made sense since they were in the middle of a jailbreak. But sometime over the next few months of hopping all over the world, and not in a fun way, he started to wonder. And once that niggling doubt latches hold to the back of your brain, it was damn hard to shake it.

 

\------------------

 

Sometime in  the last few months, Natasha became Steve’s co-leader, not his second. It snuck up on Sam--he’d actually thought of himself as sidekick number one, not that he would ever admit such a thing--but Natasha was undoubtedly the one of them with the most experience at the modern spy business, particularly after Barton peaced the hell out without saying goodbye. So at first, it was just Natasha keeping them supplied and out of sight, and then she started bringing them missions. The first few...didn’t go very well, but pretty soon it evened out and they were back to the successful art of catching bad guys and blowing bad things up as subtly as was possible. 

 

This one, to stop a shipment of illegal guns and other arms, had been going exceptionally well...at first. Wanda had really gotten much more confident in her powers and had practically cleared the isolated warehouse singlehandedly. Sam was air support and their eyes, and he barely managed to curse out a warning as he heard shots fired from the direction of the cars, outside the warehouse. Apparently they’d left one person there, hidden from Sam’s night vision goggles.

 

He swooped down and delivered a kick to the head that would render the man unconscious and quite probably concussed, and was moving toward the pistol that had flown a few yards away when he registered the ragged breathing coming through the comms. 

 

“Status.” Steve’s voice was even, but the worry was obvious. Not him, then. 

 

Sam kept it short. “There was one man in reserve at the cars. I took care of it.”   
  


Wanda chirped in her own report. “I’m fine. I’ve almost managed to get the boxes open.”

 

The ragged breathing continued, not slowing down, but no voice accompanied it.

 

This time, the Steve didn’t even try to hide the worry. “Widow. Status, now.” 

 

A long moment with no response, other than the uneven breaths. Sam started to move towards the doorway, the last place he’d seen her. He was sure the others were doing the same. 

 

Suddenly, the comms gave a sharp burst of static, and Sam winced. “Aha!” The crow of triumph was not what he’d dreaded hearing, but he would absolutely take it. He didn’t slow his run, however, and continued to launch himself back into the air in a low quick glide, folding the wings to make it through the half-open warehouse loading dock door.

 

“Widow! What the hell is going on?” Steve was pissed.

 

Her voice was chipper, although still a little out of breath. “Jeez, Cap, give a gal a break. I just hacked their network while knocking out two surprisingly skilled computer nerds. I was  _ concentrating _ .”   
  


Sam could see her, now, crouched next to a few crates that were serving as a makeshift computer station. There were two bodies lying in the nearby vicinity, and pieces of what appeared to be another crate scattered in the general area. Sam landed next to her, and saw her hair was stringy from sweat. Apparently those had been some skilled computer nerds, because she was still panting and a trickle of blood was creeping down her forehead from a cut near her hairline. She was smiling, though, and gestured at the screen even as she reached out to remove her flash drive.

 

“Got all their accounting records. We can take out their whole operation with this kind of data. What kind of idiots keep their complete financial records in one place, anyway?” 

 

His heart was calming down from the frantic beating he hadn’t even realized it had been doing ever since she failed to report. Her grin was pretty infectious, though. “Uh, like every single person who files a 1040EZ does that?”

 

She blew a raspberry. “1040EZ is for college students. And even they know not to keep their weed dealer’s name in the same notebook as their purchase records.” 

 

Sam opened his mouth to say something about them being here for illegal guns, not tax evasion or recreational substances, when he noticed Natasha’s eyes dart to something behind him as she tensed. He started to turn, but he wasn’t fast enough. His head hit the corner of the crate hard as she shoved him away. The sound he had heard wasn’t his head cracking, though; it was gunfire. Gunfire from up close. 

 

He shook his head and saw another man, clearly hired muscle, walking towards them, arm still extended. Sam fired, and based on how the arm jerked, Sam had hit his shoulder and the man cried out. Within seconds, Sam had reached him, used the butt of his pistol to knock him out, and kicked the gun far away.

 

He turned around and saw Natasha on the ground, one hand pressed against her stomach. Sam’s own stomach dropped. He couldn’t see her face, and she wasn’t moving. 

 

When he got closer, he could tell that she was conscious, but there was a worryingly large pool of red forming on the ground next to her. “Widow’s down,” he muttered into the comms as he crouched down beside her, hands quickly going for an inspection through long habit.

 

“I’m not down, I’m just--aaaah!” she gasped sharply as Sam moved her hand slightly to get a look at the wound. It was bad, real bad. “Ok, maybe I am down. Sorry, Cap. You’re gonna have to finish clearing the facility without me.” 

 

She was conscious and focused, which was good, but it was about the only good news Sam had. The bullet had hit just enough of her side to open a lot of blood vessels, and he did not feel an exit wound. 

 

“Cap, I have got to get her out of here and someplace clean where I can get this stitched up properly, ASAP. It’s ugly.” He knew Steve would hear what he wasn’t saying just fine--that if he didn’t go now, there’s a good chance she wouldn’t make it. Sam just hoped Wanda didn’t understand it that clearly as well.

 

“Dammit. Get her on the quinjet. Wanda, forget trying to get into the boxes, just set the chargers and get onto the bird. I’ll meet you there.” 

 

“Roger that,” Sam said as he positioned himself so he could carry her and apply pressure to the wound at the same time. She weighed practically nothing. Sam just hoped that there were not going to be any more surprise bad guys, since he no longer had an arm free to hold a weapon.

 

Natasha squirmed a bit, wincing. “No! Wait. The…” Sam looked down at her face; her eyes were still clear and aware. “The flash drive. Bring it.” 

 

Sam wanted to swear at her, but he didn’t, just leaned over awkwardly and grabbed it off of the floor in the arm supporting her legs. Natasha nodded, twisting her shoulder a little, and Sam realized she had his pistol in her hand, resting it on her outside shoulder. “I’ll cover us. Go.” 

 

Sam leapt into the air, headed towards the quinjet, about a half kilometer away. As they passed over the arms dealer’s cars, Natasha fired the gun and he heard someone shout. She sighed, not really covering the pain. “You have shitty night vision, Sam.” 

 

He wanted to protest, but now was not the time. He managed to get the quinjet open and Natasha placed on the table that doubled as their medbay. He was just opening the med kit when Wanda ran up the ramp. “What can I do?” 

 

Sam looked at her pale face and noted how calm she looked. He thought quickly. “Get us prepped for launch. You’re driving.” 

 

She nodded and ran to the pilot’s chair, slipping her belt on even as she started pressing buttons on the control panel. Sam dimly registered her talking to Cap on the comms, but most of his attention was focused on Natasha’s injury. In the better light, he could tell that it was a serious, but highly treatable location. He needed to get them someplace stable so he could get the bullet out and some sutures in, but everything should be fine as long as they kept it sterile. Which...he looked around the room the four of them had been living in for months. Even with their best efforts, it was cramped and smelled like gunpowder and sweat. 

 

“Cap?” Sam called out. “What’s your ETA?” 

 

“I’m...almost...there!” He must have been running very, very fast for it to impact his breathing. A moment later, Sam felt the air move and Steve was standing inside the quinjet. “Let’s go!”

 

Wanda closed the hatch and launched the bird into the air. She said something about a pretty explosion, but Sam didn’t look. He was busy handing Rogers a wad of gauze and gesturing for him to hold it in place. 

 

Sam spoke quietly, without looking up from his work. “She’ll be fine, but we need to get out of the air and into a real room so I can get the bullet out. Someplace clean, not the usual rat traps we’ve been camping out in.”

 

Steve nodded, called out to Wanda. “Wanda, you remember that lakeside resort town a few clicks to the east?”

 

Sam tuned out the rest of the conversation, because focus was one of his most notable skills, alongside flying and being emotionally intelligent and making a mean vegetarian lasagna. Something about a palace and an old bombing and Vision’s credit card and secrets not killing someone. He didn’t really care, because Natasha wasn’t awake anymore and he had never, ever seen that woman pass out. Sleep, yes, but not pass out. And that kicked his worry back up more than a few notches. 

 

And then he felt the quinjet landing, Steve standing next to him again and holding his arms out like a giant blond forklift. “I’ll carry her.” 

 

Sam stepped back and let Steve scoop her up, cradling her tiny form while Sam kept the gauze in place. Together, they moved down the ramp and through the door that Wanda held open--they must be on the roof of some building, a hotel by the look of the hallway. Wanda managed all the doors and elevators, little wisps of red magic turning knobs and pressing buttons. 

 

Soon, they were inside a nice suite at what was clearly a quality hotel. Actually, a really, really nice suite, Sam thought absently as he continued to maneuver with Steve to place Natasha on the bed. He grabbed a couple of towels and put them down underneath her side, then accepted the medical kit Wanda handed him. 

 

It took about thirty minutes to get the bullet out, the wound cleaned and stitched, and a syringe of antibiotics injected, but they did it, and Sam felt good about the work. Not as good as it would have been in a hospital, but as good as they were going to get. He washed his hands under scalding hot water in the bathroom and let his eyes wander to the large Jacuzzi, the separate shower, the marble countertops. He finally let himself react, just staring into the mirror, hands motionless under the running tap.

 

They could have lost her. So, so easily. A few inches to the right, and that bullet would have embedded in her spine. A few upwards, and her lung would have collapsed. 

 

The bullet had been meant for him. 

 

He knew it. She knew it, too; he’d seen it in her eyes when he first crouched next to her in the warehouse. If…

 

Sam knew where “if” got you, and it was nowhere pretty. He forced his face into his usual calm, joking look. They wouldn’t buy it, but the effort counted. When he came out, he saw Wanda curled up on the couch in the living room, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. She wasn’t asleep, but she clearly wanted everyone to act like she is, so Sam just picked up a blanket and covered her, then went into the bedroom, leaving the door cracked. The bedside lamp was on, casting a soft glow on Natasha’s sleeping face and Steve, who’d pulled up a chair next to her and was holding her hand gently. His hair was mussed from where he must have been running his hands through it.

 

Sam stood next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “She’ll be fine.” 

 

Steve didn’t look up, although the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “I know. It’s just…”

 

Sam let out a breath in something that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Yeah.”

 

He was still in his combat gear, they both were. Sam decided to take the first shower, in part because Steve was obviously not ready to let Natasha out of his sight yet, and in part because Sam was feeling gross and not above being selfish, and in part because he knew the second he sat down he was going to be out until morning. So he cleaned up, tested the water pressure thoroughly, and then quietly hauled the cushions off the other living room couch to make up a pallet in the bedroom. Just in case. He was effectively the team medic, after all, and he didn’t want his eyes off Nat right now any more than Steve did. 

 

He was actually surprised Wanda wasn’t in here as well. He took it as a sign of implicit trust, as well as a self-assigned role of watching their backs. She was good like that.

 

Sam drifted off before Steve got back from the shower. He was expecting nightmares, but they never came.

 

\----------

 

He woke up slowly to the sound of murmuring voices. The light level hadn’t changed, so he guessed it was still night--probably three or four in the morning. Sam quickly identified the voices as Steve and Natasha, and neither one had any stress notes in their voices that would cause him to jump up and check the wound immediately, so he just lay there and tried to drift back to sleep, eavesdropping accidentally-on-purpose--the only way he would dare with these two.

 

“--can’t believe you did that. Didn’t they train you a thousand and one ways to react to that sort of situation?” That was Steve, equal parts fond and annoyed and worried.

 

“There wasn’t time. Sometimes that’s how things line up, you know. And it was Sam, Steve. You’ve lost enough best friends already. I’m not going to watch you lose him too, not if I can stop it.” Her voice was reassuringly level, given her injury. 

 

Steve’s voice had a bite to it when he responded, although he kept it quiet. “And where would I be without you, Nat? I’m not losing either of you. Don’t you dare act like you’re somehow disposable.” 

 

“Steve, Sam’s my friend too. I’m not going to just watch him get shot, not if there’s something I can do about it. I don’t care what you think about it; it wasn’t your call to make.” 

 

Steve’s sigh of frustration was probably audible the next town over. “Don’t you get it? That’s not how this thing works. You can’t just trade one of your lives for the other.” He paused, and the lights flickered as he shifted around in the chair, probably taking her hand or fixing her hair. “It’s not even that I personally can’t bear to lose either of you, although that is completely true. It’s that once you start getting into the business of trading lives, you never stop. Then it’s just a shell game of sliding stakes for who sets the rules about which life is worth more than the others, and that is not what we do. No matter the cost. We don’t trade lives.” 

 

Rich words coming from a man who once traded his own life to save a city, Sam thought to himself as he sunk back under. He could hear Natasha’s voice responding, but sleep took him too quickly to make out her words.

 

\----------------

 

The next morning, Natasha’s wound was looking good--almost too good to be only 12 hours old. 

 

“What can I say? I heal quick,” she said, with an attempted shrug that she ended abruptly with a grimace of pain. “Not quick enough, though. This sucks.”

 

Wanda had procured them breakfast AND a new hotel reservation only a half an hour away by quinjet, on a tourist-centered Greek island just before peak season, so a few new faces wouldn’t be noticed but it’d still be quiet enough they could breathe. Steve started to argue about it being too risky, but Wanda just quirked one eyebrow and maintained that steady eye contact she was so good at, and Steve just...stopped talking. 

 

Sam didn’t think that was possible. He needed to learn that trick, ASAP.

 

So they packed up, Steve carrying Natasha and Sam carrying the gear, and relocated to the new place, which was actually a villa facing the ocean. It was nice. They set Natasha up in the master bedroom with windows facing the sunset, and Wanda elected to split with her, since the bed was huge anyway and no one wanted to leave her entirely alone yet. That left the two smaller rooms for Steve and Sam. Sam had almost forgotten what a luxury it was to have a door that closed, separating you from the rest of the world so you could just be for a moment. 

 

Sure, he also used the privacy to take care of some bodily functions that are just not going to happen in a shared quinjet. But mostly, it was the mental freedom he cherished.

 

\--------

 

After two full days of bedrest, he thought that Natasha’s wound was probably healed enough that she could handle a longer quinjet flight, although she still needed to be on the equivalent of bedrest for at least another ten days. He knew Steve was getting antsy about being so close to the botched mission, though, so he pulled out his map and pointed to the empty areas around Newfoundland. 

 

“We’ll bring plenty of water and food, go camping for a few days. Weather’s nice this time of year. Natasha can work on her tan while the rest of us do training drills.” 

 

So they went to Canada, with over a week’s worth of provisions and a camping cot that Steve got from somewhere in that Greek village. Natasha claimed it was more uncomfortable than the floor, but she still slept on it. It was peaceful, and for the first time, Sam cooked fish he himself had caught over an open fire that he himself had started. Wanda complained a little about the lack of cell service out in the middle of nowhere, which earned her a baffled glare from Steve and a knowing one from Natasha. Sam, who had seen more than one notification of a message from “V” pop up on her screen over the last few months, tried not to react at all. It was none of his business, and besides, the kid deserved a bit of happiness. 

 

After five days in the Canadian wilderness, Natasha’s wound was completely closed and she was moving around on her own, albeit as slowly and carefully as Sam’s grandma. “You sure Steve’s serum didn’t rub off on you?” Sam joked. “This is healing quicker than anything I’ve ever seen outside of him.”

 

She’d looked at him for a long moment, her big eyes knowing and unusually vulnerable. “Not Steve’s,” she said, and nothing else, but the quiet was heavy like there was something he was supposed to hear that hadn’t been said. Sam had no idea what to make of that, so he just filed it away in the corner of his mind that was labelled ‘Natasha mysteries.’

 

It was a pretty large corner, truth be told.

 

\-----------

 

It was a little over a month before Steve let Natasha do anything except run operations from the quinjet, and it was obviously driving her crazy, and her crazy was catching. Sam’s drone took a bullet in the camera and he almost pitched the thing into the ocean in frustration before looking at it and realizing it only needed a five dollar part to fix. Wanda had night terrors about Pietro three nights in a row before she finally ‘fessed up to what was bothering her. Apparently seeing a hole in Natasha’s gut had ripped open some old wounds. The afternoon that Steve finally realized why Wanda was so attached to her phone, they could probably hear him shouting about opsec all the way to Peru. Wanda had screamed right back about T’Challa, Wakandan princess scientists, and pots and kettles. Steve had punched a wall; Wanda had set a tree on fire. Natasha had grabbed Sam’s arm and said quickly, “Let’s go for a walk,” which Sam was more than happy to do. They managed to get out of earshot fairly quickly, and they spent about an hour just sitting and talking next to a rather happy brook. It wasn’t until later that he realized Natasha had been pumping him for information about his loved ones: family, friends, lovers. She had hmmed at a random point in the conversation, and thinking back he figured out it was when she realized he hadn’t called anyone in his family, not even his mom, since the funeral in London, now more than a year ago.

 

Sam hated it, and he hated that she knew it. But he knew what opsec meant, and he knew what would happen if Ross thought that Darlene Wilson was in contact with her son. Not everyone had a king or Tony Stark in their corner to redirect government bullies from sniffing around their favorite murderbot or Android child too closely. So Sam cut the ties. 

 

Hell yes, it burned that Natasha was still in regular spy-contact with the Bartons, that Steve had already been to Wakanda once this year on a not-secret secret visit to Bucky Goddamn Barnes, that Wanda barely went a day without sending a message to Vision. But if his choice was between missing his momma and protecting his momma, he was goddamn well going to protect her. Because  _ he  _ understood what it meant to put people you love in the line of fire.

 

\----------

 

It had been three months since Natasha’s injury, and they’d just pulled off a fairly successful raid on a human smuggling ring in Mexico. They’d followed what was now procedure and flown a few countries over before trying to regroup, and this time Sam had drawn the short straw on picking up supplies. So he’d hauled the empty pack into the market for fruit, the supermarket for canned goods, and a corner bodega for several pounds of coffee. (What? If he was stuck traveling the world like a vagabond, he was damn well going to stock up on quality coffee in Columbia while he was doing it.)

 

The bodega had the news on to a story about the previous night’s operation, and Sam kept a casual eye on it in case they flashed his picture and he needed to book it. Instead, they showed a grainy picture of Steve in his all-black suit, his blond hair shining like it always did and not quite matching his beard. The news reporter’s rapid-fire Spanish was almost too fast for Sam to catch, but he managed to follow the closing bit. “Se llama ‘Nomad’, dicen la policia. Quien es ese vigilante, y de donde es el hombre sin pais?” 

 

Sam bought his coffee and left, and somehow managed to keep his laughter in until he was outside on the street, where he busted up laughing so hard he had to lean against the building. Several passersby gave him looks like he might be drunk, but he just waved at them gently while laughing to himself. He wasn’t even sure why it was funny, but it was. Only Steve Rogers could go from Captain America to the Man Without A Country in a year. 

 

And only someone as dumb as Sam Wilson would follow him through it.

 

\-----------

 

One of Sam’s defining attributes is his emotional intelligence, and that means he’s honest with himself about his feelings. He has strong feelings of the negative variety towards one James Buchanan Barnes, and they’re only a little bit rooted in the car he destroyed all those years ago. In his heart of hearts, Sam knows he’s a little bit jealous of how Barnes makes Steve go completely off the map every single time. Steve usually has another reason, like stopping Project Insight or keeping secret Winter Soldiers out of Zemo’s control, but that’s always the other reason, the cover reason. The real reason, which Sam acknowledges to himself, and Barnes definitely knows and Steve absolutely refuses to admit, is that Steve will always put Barnes first. Always. The end. Sam knew it when he was standing on a dam outside of DC, and he knew it when he was standing on a runway in Germany. 

 

He knows it now, as he hands Steve his pack on the quinjet ramp on a dirt road near the Wakandan border. “See you in a week. Have a good time,” Sam says with fake cheer. He does not want Steve to have a good time. He wants Steve to not go to Wakanda, but that’s not happening any more than Tony Stark is going to call them, apologize, and invite them back. So he wishes him well and tries not to snap at Natasha and Wanda during their four day downtime, this time spent squinting in the Sahara desert.

 

Because Sam hasn’t seen enough of deserts to last him multiple lifetimes or anything.

 

When they pick Steve up a week later at the prearranged drop point on the other side of the country, Sam half-expected Barnes to be there with him. He’s not, but Steve’s eyes are settled and he is honest to god smiling. Sam has never seen that kind of smile on his face in all the time he’s known the man.

 

Sam hates Steve Rogers at that moment even more than he hates Barnes. 

 

And goddamn his emotional honesty policy, because right then he hates himself more than he hates Barnes, too.

 

\----------

  
  


They’re taking a break in a forest, and it’s hot. Luckily, there’s a creek within earshot of their campsite. Steve already caught two fish they’ll be roasting in a few hours. Wanda found a blackberry bramble and used magic to collect armloads of the berries without the traditional scratches on her forearms. Sam’s dinner chore is to boil a pot of rice, and he is more than happy with that contribution. Camping was never his favorite thing.

 

He can’t imagine starting a fire in this heat, though, not yet, and so leaves Wanda who is reading a book on her phone and heads towards the water for a quick dip to cool off. Well before he gets there, he sees the two figures he expects, but not in the way he expected. 

 

Natasha is wearing a sports bra and bicycle shorts and standing thigh-deep on a rock in the river in what is probably a very dangerous way. Steve is next to her, feet apparently resting on the riverbed because for once he’s only an inch taller than her. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and Sam assumes he has boxers on but it’s not visible because of the water hitting him at the waist. 

 

Sam sees Steve reach a hand out to her waist, resting it over what Sam knows is the fresh scar from the bullet she took for him. Steve’s rumbling voice carries, although he’s not speaking particularly loudly. “They match, now.”

 

Natasha slips her hand down, covering Steve’s hand on her waist. “You know, I am getting a little sick of getting shot. The symmetrical look is not really worth it.”

 

Steve’s other hand lands on the other side of her waist. Sam can’t really remember if there was a scar on that side or not. “Terrible look.” His voice is warm and intimate, and her responding laugh is rich and low.

 

Sam abruptly turns on his heel and walks back to camp. He suspects he knows where this is heading, and he wants no part of it or the explosions that are likely to follow.

 

\----------

 

“Every time you’re out on the streets, you’re a target for CCTV. You think they don’t have facial recognition set up for us? What do you think is going to happen when they notice us? They’re not going to give you time to finish your latte before they arrest you, you know.” Natasha’s voice was harsh and cool as she spoke to Wanda, still standing on the quinjet ramp with a coffee cup in hand.

 

Wanda was both even-tempered and defiant. “Do you actually think I don’t know to turn them off before I step into the store? I’m not a child to be coddled.”

 

Natasha’s voice grew even sharper. “I think you’re too certain of your own skills. It only takes one camera pointed your way for you to end up back on the Raft.”

 

“You are the one who taught me. Are you so paranoid now that you don’t even trust your own skills?” 

 

Steve met Sam’s eyes from the back of the jet. He looked as uncomfortable as Sam felt. He’d heard this same type of squabble before, the exact same tones of voice. It hadn’t been about CCTV, it had been about nightclubs and alcohol. Funnily enough, it  _ had  _ also ended with the prediction of jail time, though. He hoped this fight didn’t end the way that one had, with his nineteen-year-old sister hastily packing a duffel bag and moving in with their cousin, their mom clutching the phone and shouting about not bailing her out while Sam stayed in his room and tried to figure out how to tell her he’d just enlisted.

 

Sam felt a sudden sharp surge of homesickness. He missed his sister; he missed his mom. Right then, he hated Natasha and Wanda and Steve for being his family now, for reminding him of what he’s lost.

 

“Shut the hell up, both of you.” His voice was harsher than he meant it to be, and he wouldn’t look at them as he shouldered his way into the pilot’s seat. They do shut up, though.

 

\----------

 

Sam doesn’t really hate them; they’re family. One of the consequences of someone being family  _ is _ that you hate them now and again though, so he doesn’t feel too guilty about it. Still, a week later, he finds himself chatting with Wanda and he feels a sudden surge of brotherly affection for her. 

 

He breaks the topic slightly. “You know, Buenos Aires is a nice place for a short holiday. Great streets for walking, good food. I know a nice B&B I can recommend.” He doesn’t have to say that he expects her to have company there; she reads it perfectly well between the lines without having to read his mind.

 

She smiles at him. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

 

Sam does. “Yeah. Have to remember what it means to be human now and again, you know? Take the weekend.” 

 

She keeps smiling, hand reaching for her phone. “You know, I think I will.”

 

When she tells Steve and Natasha she’ll be taking the quinjet for the weekend to Buenos Aires, that it’s already arranged and she will be perfectly safe, there is far less shouting than Sam had honestly expected. Natasha gives her a long, measuring look, then nods once and pulls up a map, already looking for a place the rest of them can camp out.

 

Steve also studies Wanda, then smiles a fond, helpless smile. It’s charming. “You’re going no matter what I say, aren’t you.”

 

Wanda smiles back. “You know me well.” 

 

Steve reaches out, resting a hand on her shoulder briefly. “Have fun. Bring us back pastries.”

 

Two days later, Wanda is dropping them off in the middle of a frankly creepy forest in the no-man’s land that was the Andean mountains dividing Chile and Argentina. They had food, weapons, and a deck of cards, which wasn’t much fun to play given the Black Widow’s poker face. Steve and Natasha had been teasing and mock arguing all night, about some mission they had when SHIELD was still a thing, about Steve’s cussing, about how much sugar he took in his coffee. It was like Sam wasn’t even there half the night. Finally he’d had enough and told them he’d take watch outside and they should go the hell to bed, in the tiny little shack they had for shelter. Sam sat on a log, jacket pulled up tight and gun in hand, as the moon rose and then set. The only visitor they had was a curious rabbit.

 

Natasha and Steve were not as quiet as they thought they were.

 

\----------

 

The days drag on with the surreality that he recognizes from his deployment. Sam runs, when they steal a few moments on solid ground. When they don’t, he does pushups in the middle of the quinjet until the sticky edges of his mind recede. He keeps the wings in perfect condition. He learns how to campfire cook borscht from Natasha, colcannon from Steve, and paprikesh from Wanda. They pick up old-fashioned chili from him--something he himself had learned from Riley, a lifetime ago. 

 

They pick fights with drug lords and arms dealers and human traffickers. Usually, they win. 

 

They look over their shoulders every time they go near a city, stopping just long enough to get enough supplies for a week or two. They never set foot in the same town twice.

 

Slowly, it stops being temporary and starts being just the way his life is now, running and fighting and never, ever taking a breath without worrying. A year slides into two. He’s pretty sure this will go on forever, and he’s not sure if it’s Purgatory or Hell.

 

\---------

 

They don’t get TV on the quinjet, but once in a while they take a room in a rundown disaster of a hotel, and about half the time, that room will have a working television--and even more occasionally, that TV will have something on in one of the three languages Sam understands. This time, they manage to get CNN, and the news is typically depressing. He’s about to turn it to another station when the newscaster mentions a name that catches Sam’s attention like a lightning bolt.

 

“As Tony Stark was unavailable, Colonel James Rhodes, also known as War Machine, lead today’s briefing from the Avengers compound.” The footage switched to Rhodes, standing at a podium on the grassy lawn Sam had landed on more than once. Rhodes looked thinner, with a few more lines around his eyes, but his shoulders were back, his eyes bright, and he was  _ standing _ . 

 

Sam felt his own legs collapse under him as he sunk down onto the bed. He didn’t hear a word that was said, all but drowning in relief and gratitude to a deity he didn’t really believe in.

 

Rhodes was  _ okay. _

 

He hadn’t known how heavy that burden had been until he could set it down. He knew he was crying but wouldn’t stop even if he could. 

 

Twenty minutes later, Steve came back into the room with a bag that smelled like salt and grease, and Sam was sitting on the bed, face clear and the TV showing an old episode of the Simpsons, dubbed into Portuguese. 

 

Steve looked at him strangely for a minute. “I didn’t know you spoke Portuguese,” he commented, gesturing towards the TV. 

 

Sam looked at him a little blankly for a moment, but he figured Steve must be responding to the newly relaxed line of his shoulders, misattributing it to the cartoon’s humor. How wrong he was. “I don’t. Just...it’s gonna be fine. It really will be. Somehow. And I just now realized that.”

  
  



End file.
